This letter Marjory read at the breakfast-table, seated between Aunt Jean and Uncle Charles, with little Milly opposite to her, and all the commonplaces of ordinary talk going on. How bewildered would those good folks have been could they have read it over her shoulder! How bewildered did she feel reading it, moved to an interest which made her half indignant with herself, and feeling impatient with the writer for that restrained glow of feeling, which notwithstanding communicated to her a sympathetic thrill. “Ridiculous!” she said, and felt her cheeks glow, and her heart move a little, notwithstanding all she did to control it. “That’s a long letter, May,” said Mr. Charles, looking at it with some curiosity as she put it carefully back into its envelope. “It is from Mr. Fanshawe,” she said, with a consciousness for which she could have taken instant vengeance on herself; “he has gone to London. He said he would let me know where he had gone.” “Oh!” said Mr. Charles; and Miss Jean’s eyes lighted up. Marjory let the letter lie by her plate as if it was of no importance, but felt her cheeks grow hotter and hotter. Ridiculous! She determined to write him a most matter-of-fact reply, which should make an end of this discursive nonsense. If he thought she had leisure for a sentimental correspondence, she must convince him to the contrary; how absurd it was! And yet to be thus put upon a pedestal of absolute superiority, and worshipped in this covert way, is not in itself disagreeable. A little weakness stole about her heart; insensibly it occurred to her during the forenoon that there were several things she would like to consult him about. She slid the letter quietly into her pocket before she left the table. It happened to her to look at it again during the course of the day, just “to see what he had said” about his present occupations. As it happened he had not said anything. But how was Marjory to recollect that? CHAPTER III.